DAY # 1,500

Today is a banner day.
Today is post number fifteen hundred.
That's right.
1,500.
I have written a post every single day
For one thousand five hundred days
In
A
Row.
Thank you for the great ride.
Here's to 1,500 more.
Write on.

ANOTHER DOO-DOO DAY BUT WITH CHOCOLATE

Apparently my doo-doo work days continue.  After spending hours and hours on one project, staying late two days this week to tackle it plus weekend time, I get the old monkey wrench tossed in ninety minutes after I am (was) scheduled to go home today.  An hour and a half of my life I will never, ever retrieve, not to mention the other massive hours over the last few days.

In short, my life sucks a little bit right about now.

There is a bright spot in the maelstrom, through.  Today a coworker asks me if I've lost weight.  I haven't really, but I did start the summer with a pretty decent exercise regime.  The routine lasted until I caught the grippe in mid-August.  Six weeks, some rest, and a course of antibiotics later, I'm finally getting my groove back.  My coworker's observation gives me hope that my sabbatical from exercise hasn't been a complete bust.

Okay, so maybe I've exercised a little during the dreaded plague -- walked some, moved a little furniture, and kayaked about six miles,  Lost weight?  Nah.  Reawakened a few muscles?  Probably.

I've run the gamut from healthy to sick to overworked.  I'm exhausted and I actually shed a tear or two in front of the same coworker who had hours earlier complimented me.  (I'm sure she's damn sorry now that she spoke to me at all.) 

What is the next logical step in this "feel better look good" saga?  What else would it be -- M&Ms.

There is logic to all of this.  You see, after my doo-ey pile day Monday and my doo-doo day today, M&Ms look a little bit like colorfully covered pooh-pellets.  And, isn't chocolate supposed to lift one's mood?  I eat the entire bag -- not a big bag, but not a small one, either.  I eat all the M&Ms.  Every.  Last.  One.

Yup.  I don't feel so poopy anymore, and I'm no longer distressed about losing ninety precious minutes of my life today.  I'm not feeling as thin as I did a few hours ago, but sometimes getting the weight off the brain and lowering the blood pressure is just as important.

Maybe I should've saved a few M&Ms for work tomorrow.  I just know it's going to be another doo-doo of a day, but I'll wear something slimming and hope for the best ... oh, and leave on time ... even though I have to go back to work for three hours at night. 

Send M&Ms, people.  This is an emergency.  Send small bags, though.  I'm trying to keep my slim and ritzy figure.

 

FACE SWAPPING AND POLITICAL POSTS

Social media sucks right now.  That's right, sucks big time.  You see, everyone is posting their political bullshit online.  All you're doing is making undecided people like me crazy. 

If you post facts and reasonable dialogue, I might even hit "like," even if I don't really like the candidate.  It means I like you and the way you present your beliefs, and I am considering the post based on you personally.  If you go off presenting erroneous cartoons and rants and misinformation, you might get a like for being clever, but more likely I'll hide the post because histrionics turn off my brain.  We're still pals, but you'll be more of my pal in mid-November when the gloating is over.

Here's what you don't realize:  Undecided voters do not respond positively to nasty, cult-like, robotic, mass-mainstream commentary.  As a matter of fact, we react just the opposite.  Every time something too slanted and vindictive is posted that reeks of mass political brainwashing, we figure you've drunk the Kool-Aid and you're a mere pawn cult member.  Therefore, the other candidate must be the one for whom we should vote.

Here's what you should realize:  If you really want to convince us to vote for your candidate, post facts.  Real facts, not fake ones like the media is putting out.  Facts that withstand real fact-checking, not that fake crap from Monday's debate moderator.

Here's my take on the current situation.  The only political crap worth posting on social media is if we all take a deep collective breath, shut up about our rabid political slants, and start skewing how we view the election as much as the media skews it for us.  This would be funny and it's entertaining and it's about as real as all of the media's automated, canned, brain-washed talk-points. 

I'll tell you what -- give us all paintball guns.  Whichever candidate is still standing and doesn't have a mouth that's full of glossy liquid latex at the end, that's my leader.  This method is about as sane as the process we're using now ... maybe even more so.  To November -- and beyond!

A DOO-EY OF A DAY

I am having a shitty day, absolutely shitty, shitty day at work.  I am (if I had them and sometimes believe that I do) balls-to-the-wall busy, and I don't get out of there until I've done exactly nine and a half straight hours with two breaks: eighteen minutes to eat lunch and go to the bathroom, and a one minute pee break before an afternoon meeting.

Basically, I am having a doo-doo pile of a day.  I mean, it's not horrible or anything like that; I'm not on the verge of being fired, or, at least, I hope not.  I'm just busy and tired and backlogged and now I'm hungry.  So hungry.

I am trying to get home, debating going to the store (I don't) or maybe ordering take-out (I don't).  The only good thing about today's late schedule is that I can take the direct route home past the elementary school because it is long-past bus pick-up time. 

Yes, I decide to head straight home, which is where I hope to be until a truck pulls in front of me.  He is turning at the light, same as am I, and he takes so long to get through the maneuver that I almost miss the light, and I'm the second vehicle in line behind him.

And then ... I look up and take notice.  "A. Duie Pyle."  Perfect.  No, truly.  I am having a doo-ey pile of a day myself.  Suddenly, I feel a lot better, and I smile, I grin, and I chuckle a little bit. 

I follow the truck all the way to my street, kind of sad when we part ways.  Here's to you, A. Duie Pyle.  I don't know who you are nor what you've got inside your container, but I can attest that just your name and presence is a mood changer. 

Not only does my day seem a lot better right now -- slightly ironic, but definitely better -- but I am home.  Foraging through the freezer, I find dinner (honey BBQ wings and french fries), so all is right with the world.

BASEMENT BOUNTY

Autumn in New England - that lovely time of year when we have to put the heat on in the morning and the air conditioners on in the afternoon; when we drive with the windows open but continuously adjust the vents (hot ... cold ... hot ... cold ...).  It's like Mother Nature has menopause, and we all have to suffer for it.

It's finally almost cool enough to finish cleaning out the basement.  I planned on doing it over the summer, but we didn't have one single crappy day the entire time.  The basement still feels warm - it retains the summer heat as easily as it absorbs the winter chill - but I decide to work down there, anyway.

I have to put the workout space back together.  It has been in a semi-disarray since I had the washer and dryer changed out in mid-July.  I also need to call the junk man.  I meant to do that a year ago, but I never finished getting the big stuff out.  This conundrum has left me with a small pile of junk on my patio for an entire year.

However, I'm also discovering other gems as I work my way across the vast wasteland of assorted junk in the basement.  For example, I am not a gardener.  I have cement outside of my house, yet I feel the need to own several pairs of gardening gloves, some trowels, etc.  Sure.  Okay, I guess.  I have a long garden hose, brand new, that I intended to use with the landlord's water spigot, but, after I invested in the hose, someone bent the spigot so the hose won't really attach at all.  Terrific.  That's okay because I don't have to water my nonexistent garden.

I do find a boombox, which is great because my MP3 player keeps changing to Christmas music while I work out, and that just stresses me out and defeats the purpose of trying to relax and get healthy.  The boombox still works, radio and all, even in the basement, and all it needs is a quick dusting to move from the junk side to the gym side.

The landlord recently put in a new cellar window, full-sized, so now I have to set up my indoor shooting gallery somewhere else.  Yup, BB guns and Air-Soft guns are welcome in the basement, or were, but now I'll have to rework that situation. Don't want to accidentally take out a pane of glass, especially with winter coming.

Speaking of winter, how many ice scrapers does it take to clear off a car?  Don't answer that!  I know this!  Apparently, a dozen.  Yes, I already have a scraper or two, one with a brush and at least one without, packed in my car at all times.  The scraper comes in handy to rid the windshield of bird droppings, and the brush helps during pollen season.  Both get employed during worm-poop season, as well.

Imagine, though, my amazement at finding more scrapers, and then more, and even more scrapers in the basement.  Anyone need a scraper?  I think I kept buying them when my kids would constantly complain that they didn't have ice scrapers.  In fact, they did.  What they did not have were clean cars.  The ice scrapers were somewhere underneath empty coffee cups and important mail, all of which created extra insulation on the floors of their vehicles.

Now all I need is the number of a reliable and reasonable junk dealer.  I've got to get this crap off my patio before winter comes.  I don't really want to shovel around the stuff again, and I'm sure my landlord is starting to suspect that I'm in the contraband business, selling used appliances out of my home.  If only the washer-dryer delivery service could've taken the stuff away, then I'd be happy.  At least the only two things I need to dump somewhere myself are three computer hard drives.

Once all of that's gone, I can go back to seeing how many basketballs, badminton racquets, and pairs of crutches I have stashed down there.  My basement is just a large-scale version of Mary Poppins' carpetbag; it's a never-ending stream of useless but fascinating treasure.

WINE OF THE WEEK - RIOJA

What a great wine weekend!  Two tastings and a grand tasting!  Woohoo!  I behave myself and pour a lot of the wine into the buckets rather than employ my New England Yankee attitude of "nothing gets wasted," and that includes me.

This concept of keeping myself relatively sober at a grand tasting means that I could easily recommend a dozen wines for Wine of the Week.  I could even nominate a label of the week, that's how great a wine weekend it is.

Alas, though, I must narrow my choices down, and this decision turns out to be relatively easy.  You see, there's a wine I've been dying to try, but there's no way I'm paying the price if I am only going to end up cooking with it.  The bottle grabbed my attention months ago - dark, ornate label, covered with interlaced metallic wire trim.  Plus, it's a Spanish Rioja, one of my favorite reds.  (Okay, most reds are my favorite, so this is a moot point.)

Some Riojas are lighter, and fall into the typical red category.  This one, though, is bolder, darker, more robust in the glass.  It's fruity and smoky all at the same time -- earthy, spicy, woody.  The tannins aren't offensive, and the finish lingers without overstaying.

At $18 a bottle, this is one of those wines that makes a great gift or should be served with a special meal because of its rich flavor and impressive bottle presentation.  My suggestion for Wine of the Week:  Campo Viejo Rioja Gran Reserva 2010.

ROLL ON, BERTUCCIS

Come on, Bertuccis; man up.  Seriously.

I shouldn't have to ask for complimentary rolls.  You should GIVE the COMPLIMENTARY rolls to everyone who orders food.  That's what makes something that is complimentary ... complimentary.

I decide to order a Silano pizza because I really like Silano pizza and also because it's deep into September and it's still damned hot and humid, so I don't want to cook anymore.  I'm not going to cook until I can safely do so without melting sweat into the food.

When I go to pick up the pizza, I park along a side street, coincidentally where my daughter lives.  I try to park incognito so I don't disturb her.  It doesn't work.  She and a friend are out for a walk and see my car.  They knock on my closed passenger window (closed because I have the air conditioner blasting to stave off the hot, humid 84 degrees outside), and they scare the shitolsky out of me.

This particular Bertuccis is a little hole in the wall restaurant, so the front counter is pretty much also the kitchen, the order counter, and the waitstaff staging area.  I'm watching it all as I wait for my turn with the cashier.  Finally, I get my pizza.

"Um, do you have any rolls?" I ask.  I know damn well they have rolls.

"Oh, you want rolls?"

No, I asked because I don't want any rolls.  Doh.  Of course I want rolls.  "How much are they?"

The cashier smiles.  "They're complimentary!" he says cheerfully.

Yes.  Complimentary.  Now, wrap some of those puppies up for me, dude.

He has to forage through three different wire bins, and I watch him go from one to the other to the next, pulling back the warming towels and rooting around.  Finally, he returns with a paper bag of rolls.  I take my Silano pizza and the bread booty back to my car.  My daughter is nowhere in sight. 

Truly, though.  Come on, Bertuccis.  Complimentary rolls are complimentary rolls.  I shouldn't have to ask for them.  Do you have to give them to everyone?  No ... but you should.  You should at least ask, "Do you want rolls with that order?"  I mean, your pizza is good, but it's not $20 a pie worth of good.  Cough up the damn rolls and don't make me work for them. 

It's just good business, my friends.

NICK NOLTE'S MUGSHOT AND MY WET HAIR

I am letting my hair grow again.

I kept it short all summer, truly short, and loved it.  But, I will soon have some stitches in my face, and I decided to grow my hair again to take the focus off my soon-to-be Bride of Frankenstein look.  This means that my hair is at that bizarre in-between phase.

I could pull it back with a headband, but then my glasses would mess up the look.  It's too long to control and too short to pull back.  I just need to survive a few weeks of growing out my hair.

I call it my "Nick Nolte Mugshot" look.

No word of a lie.  I get out of the shower this evening, get into my pajamas, shake the towel off my head, glance in the mirror, and --

OHMYFRIGGINGGAWD!

Nick Nolte is staring back at me.  Not cute Rich Man, Poor Man Nick Nolte; crazy-eyed "I just got my ass busted" Nick Nolte.

A dab of hair gel and some blow-drying later, I look almost human again ... a little too much like my mother, but no one ever mistook my mother for Nick Nolte's mugshot, at least not to my knowledge.

Here's to letting my hair grow out yet again.  Bless you, drunk Nick Nolte.  Without you, I'd have nothing to aspire to, and I've have to accept myself as I am without the slightest hint of humor or irony.

GOOD HELL WITH GOODELL

Go, Pats!

Who knows what will happen in tonight's football game.  Do I have faith in my team?  Oh, please.  After decades of watching this team drain the life out of its fans, it's kind of nice to be able to gloat for a few seconds.

Really.  Remember when the Boston Patriots and the Baltimore Colts used to compete for who sucked the most and would end the tortured season in last place?  No? 

I do.

All this bullshit about Tom Brady.  Deflated balls.  Who cares.  No, really.  I don't care because of the penalty that has been assessed.  Players can get caught using 'roids (or worse), beating the shit out of their wives on camera, being involved in truly illegal activity, etc., for little or no punishment whatsoever.

What do they get?  Blow jobs from Roger Goodell, that's what.

So, I decided that the only truly great use for Snapchat is to turn Roger Goodell into the human anal fistula that all New England Patriots fans understand the man to be.  Sure, Roger, vacation at your Maine house, you tool.  But, be prepared to be treated like the moron you are, and please continue to be a dingleberry.  You have no idea the joy people get when downloading screenshots of you as the dillweed you truly are.

Go, Pats!

POST-PLAGUE

I finally feel like I have recovered from The Plague.

After three-plus weeks of uncontrollable hacking, wheezing, chest pressure, and bizarre, intermittent fevers, I am finally in full recovery mode.  I am feeling so much better that I have already broken my pact to eat healthy.

Yup.  I'm eating store-bought cream-filled cookies right now.  With milk, though.  Milk.  M-I-L-K.  That makes it all healthy, right?  Okay, I'm eating healthIER. I'm trying.  Really, I am.  Well, maybe not THAT hard, but I have the best of intentions.

The thing that really fries me about the whole near-month of fighting off The Plague is my energy level.  I don't have my full stamina back, and I'm finding myself napping at inappropriate times.  Faculty meeting running long?  Ooops, I wouldn't know.  I dozed off for a few seconds.  Kids testing?  Still?  Oh, wait. I think I dozed off for a second.  Sit down and watch television at seven o'clock at night?  Ooops, bummer.  I fall into a deep sleep and now it's bed time.

So maybe I'm not completely recovered yet, but it was, after all, The Plague, or could've been.  It felt like The Plague.  I'm pretty sure that several times Monty Python trudged by my living room windows while chanting, "Bring out your dead!"

I'm pleased to report, however, that I'm not dead yet, at least at the time of this blog's writing.  If I can just wrangle some energy, I might jump for joy.  Maybe tomorrow.  Baby steps.  It was, after all, The Plague.

IS MY CAR BEING SHOT AT, OR IS THAT AN ACORN?

It's that time of year again here in New England:  Time to play "Is My Car Being Shot At, Or Is That An Acorn?"

Yes, folks, autumn in New England means multiple heart attacks while driving.  Every time the car gets pinged by something that sounds like a boulder or a cannonball, we here in the Northeast do three things:
1.  We duck down a little while driving (and tighten our sphincters);
2.  We swear like drunken sailors on a weekend bender;
3.  We wonder if the bullet breached the gas tank and how much time we have to bail before the explosion.

Generally, it's easy to figure out which is which when it comes to bullets and falling, errant acorns.  If you happen to be driving through Lawrence, it's a bullet hitting your car.  If you're driving through the back roads of the country under the protection of leafy trees, it's an acorn.  If you're driving through suburbia, it's a crapshoot and could be either one.

Falling acorns sound like missiles blowing up bunkers.  It's amazing the reverb these things get and how quickly the sound makes you look around for smashed windows or blood pouring from a necessary internal organ.  Honestly, acorns pinging automobiles are to the blood pressure what Viagra is to erections -- after an acorn hit, one's heart rate can easily stay elevated for four hours or more, and you might eventually need medical intervention.

I truly hope this morning's giant boom on the car's exterior is from an acorn.  I don't think it's a rock.  Who would be hiding in the woods along a busy route where the speed limit is 50 mph, winging rocks at vehicles in the pouring rain?  I check the windshield, which still appears to be intact.

I have already experienced noise terror once today when a huge crash of thunder wakes me from a work dream, and I spring out of bed at 3:15 a.m. unsure of exactly where the hell I am.  (Not at work, thankfully, since I don't have on a bra.)  Now, driving to work, this.  It's enough to make me consider wearing Depends so I don't randomly shit myself when I believe I'm the target of a real-life game.

Truly, I could be.  I'm right near the state forest and sitting at a red light by local walking trails.  Maybe some nut job really is shooting at cars.  My stomach, already feeling sour from the wee-hours experience, feels funky.  I'm not going to lie: I look down to see if I'm bleeding.  I could be, you know.  I may have been shot!  It sounded super loud!

Alas, no broken windows (not even a spider crack), no holes in the car, and no holes in me.

Guess since I'm near the woods that an acorn must've hit me.  Damn those things.  They're so freakin' LOUD when they hit.  Worst of all, autumn has not officially started, so I have several weeks left of being "shot" at by Mother Nature.

Oh, well.  There is always that possibility that I am being simultaneously shot at and bombarded by angry oak trees ala Dorothy Gale.  I mean, this is suburbia, after all.  Plus, I've never been exceptionally popular.  Hmmmm, maybe I'll just stay inside for the next few weeks until winter arrives in earnest.

AUTOMATED NIGHTMARE

I have to take some time off from work. I have to have a minor medical procedure done that will involve stitches in my face, so I need a few of my sick days back so I can possibly return to work not looking like a total freak Frankenstein monster.

No problem, work tells me, just put the time into the system.  Hurry, they tell me (even though it's weeks away), hurry, hurry, hurry!  They even promise the job to a particular substitute.

"The system" is automated, and my boss assures me that I can't screw it up.  Hahahaha, oh, she of so much faith. I put the dates in with notes for the administration and all, and I hit "submit."  All set, right?

Wrong.

Within minutes my email is pinging away.  A person I've never heard of scrambles for some of the four dates, and the next thing I know, the woman who has been promised the paycheck is out on her keister.

I stew about this for a few minutes then email administration about it.  Oh, they can fix it on Monday, I hope.  A little while later, my email pings again.  Someone else completely random and also unknown to me has scooped up the other date that the first woman apparently did not want.

Good god, how could I have screwed this up?  It's a damn automated system!

I stew about this, too, for a couple of hours.  If I delete the request, will I be in trouble?  Will I screw up my chance of having it approved at all?  Meanwhile, the surgeon still has not sent me the required and promised paperwork, even though she claims she did.  Same thing with the prescription I need -- claims that was faxed and it never was.

So, I go back into the automated system and hit DELETE for the entire request.  Now, when people see my name come up for subbing, they're going to think I'm a total asshole for putting in the request then rescinding it.

Why is this process so hard?  I thought the hardest part of all of this would be the surgery.  Right now, the surgery seems like the only easy part.

All I ask is that my students are still alive and intact when I return.  The rest of it?  Not my problem.  Maybe we should go back to the old days of just calling in sick.  Sure would make life easier.

WINE OF THE WEEK: TREBBIANO ABBRUZZO

This week's wine comes from Italy (no big shocker).

Harvested in mid to late September (timely, I'd say), I find myself sipping the 2014 vintage made up of 100% trebbiano d'abbruzzo, a high-yielding white wine grape.  I'm partial to trebbiano, so I have high hopes for the wine.

I am not disappointed.

This extremely drinkable wine is fine by itself, but it also pairs well with cheese, fish, and lighter pasta dishes (like primavera).  It's fruity but not sweet, just incredibly easy on the palate.  It blends notes of apples and pears with a slight hint of floral.

This wine lingers without offending.  It's long without overstaying its welcome.  It's a beautiful golden color with a hint of pale green and is a wine that is tasty and visually appealing.  It's perfect for an early evening dinner on the patio with the sun glinting off the glass -- wine the color of sunshine.  It makes a perfect gift, as well.  (Pick me!)

Best of all, this wine is under $10 a bottle.

Wine of the week for this week:  Eredi Legonziano Vineyard's Trebbiano Abbruzzo doc Cocciatosta, 2014.

AFTER JUST ONE WEEK

Ladies and gentlemen, I am thrilled to report that after a mere full week of school, I am just as bloody frigging exhausted as I was last June.

It's early Friday evening (when I write this), and I am fighting to stay awake.  By 9:30p.m., I have already dozed off several times, already gotten into pajamas and brushed my teeth, and I may as well be in a nursing home.  Yes, I am already feeling like I need a cane or possibly a wheelchair just to get from the kitchen to my bedroom.

Already I have fantasized about vacation, ignored emails, and willed myself not to smack someone.

In a way, it's nice to know some things never change.  However, in this case, it's a sad, devastatingly horrible draining feeling to wonder if 7:30 is too early to go to bed on a Friday night.

P.S.  It isn't.

PAINTING THE NIGHT

I'm singing a little ditty that I just made up:

Going to a paint night,
Paint night,
Paint night,
Going to a paint night-
Gonna be FUN!

(Fishy birch tree from Paint Night #1)

Honestly, I suck at painting.  I've done this twice so far.  Once, my birch trees looked like bluefin tuna.   The other time, my clouds looked like a tsunami and my sailboats looked like shark fins.  (Hmmmm, apparently all my paintings are destined to resemble ocean fish of some sort.)

Tonight, though, I am going to try again.  Why?  Because it's a fundraiser at my daughter's work.  I only do this painting stuff for fundraisers, never for fun or educational purposes.  There will be sangria and munchies and my paintbrushes will whisk across the canvas like besotted Flamenco dancers.  In the end, my painting will look like a kindergartner created it.

I don't care.  It's a fundraiser.

Best of all, though, I get to spend time with my daughter and hang out with some of her amazing friends.  It may seem like I'm doing something completely altruistic for a grand cause, but honestly it's just another way to laugh and have fun with fabulous people.

And there will be sangria.  Did I mention the sangria?  In case anyone is wondering where I am, I'll be near the sangria.  With my paintbrushes.  Painting trees and sailboats that look like fish.  Because I can.

NEW BURGER - EW BURGER

There's a new burger joint open in my town.  People have been raving about it, so tonight I go in. 

First thing I notice is that it smells funky.  It smells like mothballs.  I suspect it is the paneling on the walls, but I'm not sure. 

The second thing I notice is that their prices are reasonable ... I guess.  $6 for a cheeseburger with no fries or anything.  I don't know.  Is that reasonable?  I think it is, but maybe I'm wrong. It's a decent cheeseburger, and it's juicy and packed with lettuce and tomato and all.  Draft specialty beer is $5.75.  Okay, the prices are a little high for the fast-food-like atmosphere.

The third thing I notice is a girl behind the counter with very long stringy black hair, most of it not pulled back, touching her hair constantly then touching food and beer taps.  She also puts her hands all over people's forks as she puts the forks on trays after running her hands through her hair.  Thankfully, I do not need flatware, and the guy making my burger is wearing gloves.

The fourth thing I notice is The Wilding.  Yup.  It's a school night, and the place is overrun with tweeners.  There are a dozen tweeners, male and female, feeling each other a little too indecently, wearing bras as tops (real bras, not sports bras), sitting on tables that families are using, and yelling so loudly that I cannot hear the person sitting across from me.  These kiddos stay way past being done with their food.  Yup, these are the same young people whose parents complain that teachers shouldn't give homework so families can spend more time together.  Go home, children; go home.

The last thing I notice is the filthy chair and the filthy table I have to clean myself before I can sit down.  The place is half-empty, so it's not like they're too busy to keep up.  Why don't you have Hair Hand Girl come out and clean the tables since her palms are already disgustingly filthy?

Listen up, "New"burger.  You might have a great location, but unless you cater to all your clientele and keep the dining area clean and safe and free of stragglers, not even your semi-decent prices and semi-decent product will keep your doors open. 

TAKE A HIKE, SUMMER

Okay, okay.  It has been a wonderful summer.  Best weather we've had in decades.  Hot days and warm nights that feel like they'll never end.

Yup.  Never. end.  Never. Neeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvveeeeeeerrrrrr.

Honestly, I am damn tired of having my air conditioners running.  I'm ready for some fresh air and cold nights.  I'm ready for some frost on the windows.  I'm ready for fall flowers and pumpkins and hot chocolate.

Of course, the sun going down earlier doesn't make me very happy.  The end of lazy days at the beach doesn't make me happy.  I'm going to miss the ease of leaving the house within seconds of deciding to go out because all I need to put on are flip-flops. 

Yup, I'll miss summer in a way that one misses company that has overstayed its welcome.  Please, though, bring on sweatshirt weather.  Please let me wear socks again.  Please help me step outside without drenching my own body in sweat as if I am stewing myself.

Autumn isn't that far off.  I'm ready.  I love you, Summer, but I need a break.  I know, I know; you'll throw this blog in my face when I'm freezing my butt off in January, but right now I need some New England color and some New England cooling.

God willing, I'll see you next summer, Summer, but until then, I'll say this as nicely as possible: Take a hike, dude; it's time for a change.

FULL MOON FRIDAY

I have been trying to watch the moon these last few nights.  The moon is waxing Gibbous right now, about 78% illuminated, working toward Friday's full phase.

I realized a long time ago that I have the wrong shades for moon gazing.  When I lived in the apartment two houses over, my bedroom window was three stories above the street, and I could leave the blinds open and fall asleep by moonlight, especially every visible full moon.  Now that I live two houses over, I have shades instead of blinds upstairs, plus my bedroom window overlooks the neighbors' hall window.  If they choose to angle it just right and maybe stand on a step ladder, they can watch me sleep on a clear night.

I miss the monthly moonlight and the fabulous natural nightlight it provides.  When I take the recycling to the curb this evening, I notice the moon rising over the trees.  This month it's the Full Harvest Moon, officially happening at 3:05 p.m. Friday.  This full moon is also supposed to have a penumbral lunar eclipse, but not one visible to the naked eye.  The sun, moon, and Earth will align, and there will be a slight shadow cast upon the full moon.

How cool is this?

I try to get a picture of the moon after dropping the recycle bins at the street.  I've never been very good at taking night pictures, but I snap the waxing orb, just the same.  The moon is fascinating and wonderful and romantic and exotic and spooky.  I may just have to replace the room darkening shades I have now with a good, old-fashioned set of plastic blinds.  I miss the moonlight lulling me to sleep at night and waking me before dawn in the morning.

I have a couple of more days before the moon hits its fullest phase for the month.  If you cannot find me, there's a good possibility that I'm at Home Depot getting new blinds for upstairs.

PROTESTING THE ANTHEM ON 9/11 MAKES YOU AN ASSHOLE

I haven't weighed in on the whole athletes sitting out the national anthem thing yet, at least not on this blog, but I am writing this entry on 9/11, and, you know, there is Hallowed Ground in this world, and the sites involved in the 9/11 radical Islamist attacks are amongst them.

So, here's my advice to you overpaid, under-talented pieces of shit athletes: Stand up and shut up and keep your fucking black panther salutes to your goddamned selves, especially on 9/11.

You suck. You're nothing but ignorant multi-millionaire dickwads whose opinions and voices mean nothing.  NOTHING.  Until you put your money where your big fat mouths are, you are nothing but straw men (and women) leaning over bonfires.

Eventually you will crash and burn, and no one will care nor remember you.  No one.

We remember Pat Tillman.  We remember the heroes of 9/11 where skin color didn't matter.  As a matter of fact, the issue of skin color was pretty much nationally resolved until 2008, but that's not my axe to grind, at least not today.

It's September 11th.

Show some damn respect, you damn communist, self-centered, moronic dillweeds.  If you hate America, LEAVE.  Give all your money to your favorite religious or racial charity and get the fuck out.  You may have the right to, oh, pretend to say something important.  You're all talk and no action.  I don't see any of you volunteering or giving back to the community in ways that matter.  Go rebuild Detroit if you care so much about black communities. While you're at it, send some cash to Appalachia, too, or are those poor kids too light-skinned for you to care about?  What about the Native Americans who are once again being screwed by the government?  Do THEIR lives matter?  No?  They're too light-skinned for you, too?

Fuck you.  Stand up, shut up, and keep your damn hand over your heart.  The national anthem isn't your protest song; it's America's rallying cry.  You want to protest?  Go distribute cash to your causes and give time and education and sponsorship to schools and neighborhoods.  Stop being useless show-offs and respect something beyond your fame and fortunes.

It might be your right to be an asshole, but it's my right to tell you so.  Be an asshole any other day you want, but don't be an asshole on 9/11.  That just makes you look even dumber and phonier than you already are.  You don't care about America or blacks or whites or anyone but yourselves.

Too bad, because you're doing it wrong.  With the platform you  have, you're doing it so, so wrong.  We don't support you; we dismiss you.  For all of our sakes, if you're going to sit down, then please just stay down, and put some duct tape over your mouth while you're there.  Actions speak louder than your empty words.  For the love of this country, SHOW us, don't TELL us.  If you're not willing to do that, just ... go ... away.

WINE OF THE WEEK

I have a friend who likes Malbec.  This same friend's son spent some time in Patagonia, which is the southernmost part of South America.  I'm rather fond of Malbec myself, so it is serendipitous when I come across a Patagonian Malbec for $18.

Bodega del Fin del Mundo Reserva 2013 Malbec is aged in French and American oak barrels for ten to twelve months, but it doesn't have that overpowering oaked aftertaste.  The process softens the tannins, and the result is a smooth combination of fruit and earth.  The wine is textured but not complex because it hits the palate with its own character and personality all while sustaining flavor and consistency.  Previous Reserva Malbecs have won wine awards from Argentina to France.

In other words, you don't have to take my word for it.

But, should you want to, this wine is one of the pricier ones I'll recommend.  Under $20 but more than I usually spend on myself, it's still reasonably priced as a gift to bring to share with my friend in honor of Patagonia and Malbec and life in general.

BACK TO SCHOOL

The students and I have successfully survived the first week of school.  Okay, for me it has been four days, and for the kids it has been three, but it is a seamless transition.  By Friday, even the students are saying how it seems like they've been in seventh grade all along. 

It is like we are all instantly comfortable with each other and the routines we are mastering.  Of course, we are flying by the seats of our pants this fall as a newly mandated but undefined pilot program is germinating in the classroom.  Not just my classroom, either.  As usual, my cohorts and I are doing the grunt work while we will get very little glory for our blood, sweat, and tears.

Honestly, though, being glorified is not first and foremost in the daily grind of teachers, although it is stupendous when it happens spontaneously.  On the third day, my last class breaks out into spontaneous cheering and clapping several times: for one student, for each other, and for the accomplishments of their entire grade in general. 

Apparently, they will celebrate anything. 

This is great news because I, too, like to celebrate anything and everything, and, for some strange reason, I find myself whistling lately.  Truly, for the last four days, I have been whistling anything, everything, nothing, and something: Armed Forces songs, classical music, toddler songs, music from the radio, hard rock, jazz, foreign songs...

It just happens; I cannot stop myself. Quite frankly, my whistling is driving me out of my mind.

It seems, though, that my whistling is simply an extension of the transition to a new school year.  On day one, I drove to work saying over and over again. "I don't want to go back.  I hate going back.  It gets worse every year.  Please, don't make me go back."  By day four, I am randomly whistling so incessantly that I have to really think about it to stop myself.  I whistle in the halls at school, in the car, around the house...

Damn you, positive school year!  You're ruining my foul mood!  Next thing I know I will wake up early on Saturday, and probably in a good mood, as well.  Here's to another school year of undue angst, unprepared teaching, endless whistling, and spontaneous cheering.

WEARING THE HEELS

Today is my second day of "Wear Heels to Work" mode.  I'm dressing up, and I'm wearing kick-ass shoes to match my outfits.

I do not know why I am doing this.  I'm going to be on my feet all day long, both days.  I guess my DSW and Famous Footwear addiction has caused enough guilt for me to suffer for two days.  I mean, if I buy the shoes, I really should wear the shoes.

Actually, the shoes are not uncomfortable.  It's all about my feet -- broken several times in several places, cut through the nerves, rebuilt better than the bionic woman's feet, and suffering Morton's neuroma (which causes real and phantom pain). 

It doesn't matter if I wear heels or flats, my feet are going to complain by the end of the day.

My feet are reasonably comfortable through day #1, and they're actually comfy on Day #2 for the most part.  The shoes are on the sexier side, but they're made by Naturalizer, a known practical shoe brand, so my paws aren't crying.  Well, until I've been on them for eight hours.  I push one more hour, hour #9, when I go to vote in the state primary.

I don't know why I vote in the state primary because most people on the ballot are running unopposed for local things like Head Salt Miner and Grand Poohpah of Pittances and Sheriff of Schlock.  Walking back to my car across the lot after voting, my right foot finally starts screaming.  By the time I get home, it feels as if and entire section with the ball of my foot is being ripped out.

It's not the shoes' fault, though.  This is my badder foot of the two bad feet -- the one that has been surgically made to look like a foot again; the one with the weird nerve disorder; the one that pretends to be hurt when there's nothing actually wrong with it.  Don't blame the comfy Naturalizers.

Tomorrow I'm going to wear another dress because it is going to be 90 degrees.  I'm going to wear more practical sandals, though, because we haven't yet had our annual fall fire drill.  I want to make sure that I can get out of the building safely, but I also want to make sure my feet look kick-ass while doing so.

In the meantime, my paws and I will rest tonight.  Maybe there's something worth watching on television.  Maybe I'll play games on my phone.  Maybe I'll go to bed early.  No matter.  My feet will be ready for tomorrow.  I've already lined up five possible choices for tomorrow's fire drill extravaganza, so I'm sure something will match my outfit, yet again.

WINE - SURVIVING THE FIRST DAY

The first official day back at school goes reasonably well. 

I am still recovering from the plague, so my voice, already tenuous, gives out during extended homeroom.  Thankfully I have created a word search based on my syllabus, so I will have fifteen or so minutes in every class to recover a little bit while the kiddos get a chance to work together.

My pals, teachers from another grade, bring me a big hunk of chocolate cake during my last teaching class, and I inhale it during my planning period when no one is around to watch me smear fudge frosting all over my face.  This is the high point of my day.

I only have to stay an extra hour to get everything (almost everything) done for tomorrow.  No way am I repeating last night's work-a-thon until after ten o'clock at night.  Of course, I copy the wrong worksheet, but it all works out in the end.  My co-worker and I decide to go with this worksheet anyway, which makes me really happy and extremely relieved.

The only glitch in the entire day happens before I even leave the house to go to school. 

I pack my lunch for school, and, since it's my first packed school lunch in several weeks, I try to cover all of my bases.  I bring fruit and veggies and snacks and a roast beef sandwich and way too much food because I cannot decide what I might want to eat hours later.  I do know that I need a small water for lunch.  This is easy.

Well, this should be easy.

I reach around on the top shelf of the fridge.  First, I find the tall waters.  Those are for my son's lunches.  I blindly move my hand around to find the small water bottles that I bring for lunch.  I grasp something from the shelf, pull it out, and discover...

WINE.  I have pulled out a mini bottle of wine. 

Oh, if only, if only.  Sadly, I replace the wine to the fridge, grab a water bottle, and finish putting my lunch together.  It's all right, though.  I'll drink the wine later, after I survive the first day.  IF I survive the first day.  WHEN I survive the first day (which I do).

STILL GRILLING SEASON

The students arrive Wednesday.  Tuesday I sit in meetings all day long.  I sit in so many meetings that my ass actually falls asleep more often than Bill Clinton during a Hillary Clinton speech.  Somewhere mid-superintendent spiel, my lower back seizes up and I squirm uncontrollably in my seat.  And this is only the first two and a half hours.  I still have three more meetings and four more hours to go.

I cannot even stay late to get organized.  I'll have to get organized at home because I must get to the grocery store and have dinner ready before my kiddo/fellow boarder has to leave for lacrosse.  At the store I buy some 93% fat-free hamburg and some steak tips.  I'm dying for red meat.

I decide we need a cook-out.  I mean, the students will arrive in the morning, so this truly is the Last Hurrah of Summer.  I don't care that it's 67 degrees out.  I don't care that it's drizzling.  We are having a cook-out, damnit.

I make the patties (a little over 1/3 pound each), season them, and toss those fat boys onto the flaming hot grill.  As long as I keep the top closed, they won't get wet from the rain.  I might get soaked, but they won't, and that's the important part.  By the time my kiddo arrives home, smoky grill aroma is permeating the neighborhood.

Take THAT, neighbors!  Hahahahaha.  Rain won't stop us.  We are GRILLING!

Not going to lie.  The burgers are perfect.  Amazing.  My son thinks so, too, because he scarfs down two cheeseburgers in the time it takes me to finish my hamburger.  Nope, rain isn't going to stop us from having one more barbecue before my social life is completely over.  Starting Wednesday, though, I'll be so tired by 3:00 p.m. that I'll be lucky to make it home without napping at my desk first. 

Sounds like macaroni and cheese dinners are in my future.  But, wait.  I do have those steak tips, and ... it still is grilling season.

SO LONG, SUMMER

I don't know why I bother listening to the weather anymore.  Today is supposed to be crappy - rainy, windy, and all around poopy.  Today is my last official day of summer break, and it's sunny and damn nice out.  Figures.

Well, that's actually not true since I have already put in one and a half days at school that involved meeting with students and sitting in official professional development sessions (including the mindful whisperer who made us all crazy and anxious).  I guess my break ended a week ago.  But, this is the supposedly "official" end of summer for me and my colleagues. 

By the time you read this, I will either be getting ready to leave the house, on my way to school, already in meetings, or on my way to do all those pesky errands I have ignored, errands like resupplying my OTC meds and getting my own personal stash of antibacterial hand wash.  I am not going to spend my last free day running errands.  No way!

Instead, I am spending the entire day in my pajamas (yoga pants and an old shirt) and doing the schoolwork that I have been walking past all summer.  I re-edit and re-send some grammar tests that I tried to edit last week but was probably sipping wine at the time.  I think they're okay now.  I type up some stuff for the interactive notebooks the students will be doing this year, and then I add it to the stuff I already have prepped for the exemplar versions.  I'm not just taking on one giant change to my curriculum this year; I'm taking on two major changes, and the end result had better be more prep work and less correcting.  I don't mind the creative side of this job, but the general maintenance side of it blows chunks big time.

After I print out several copies of everything, I start putting the exemplar interactive notebooks together.  These will be evolving works in progress, but there is some groundwork to be done, like tables of contents and such.  I need glue sticks, and, luckily, I have about a dozen half-dried out glue sticks in my personal desk here at home.  I start rooting around in the drawer when I discover something even better.

Yes, there really is something better than a glue stick.  The stuff I find is even better than white liquid glue we used to let dry on our hands then see if we could peel it off whole.

I find RUBBER CEMENT.  Best of all, it's not even dried out and rubbery; it is still gooey and snotty and smells to high heaven.  Yup, this is the stuff of old-school projects that we could all use to legally get high.

I end up using all of the rubber cement that's left in the bottle, but I get the exemplars all set up and ready to go.  I have a slight headache, but for some strange reason, I'm very content and don't have the least care in the world that I have wasted an entire "last day" on work-related junk.  As a matter of fact, when my head clears, I might even pour myself a glass of wine or make myself a Caffe Moka (hard stuff) shake -- I am supposed to be upping my calcium intake, after all.

Yes, the work is done, my bag is packed for school, and I'm ready to relax.  Bonus: I'm still in my pajamas at dinner time.  Truly, it's a shame I'll have to shower and get dressed in normal clothes tomorrow.  Oh well.  183 more work days to go and then I'll get a re-do. 

So long, summer.  I miss you terribly when you're gone.

PEANUTS UNO

My daughter is having a tough week at work.  She's covering extra shifts, filling in for people on vacation, and pulling double shifts.  On top of all of this, things are not going as planned at work in every bad way they can possibly go.

When she texts me to invite me over for dinner, part of me feels guilty.  She insists that she is making a boiled dinner whether I come over or not because she is craving brisket and veggies.  She cooks the best brisket ever, so of course I agree.  Plus, it will just be the two of us, and that doesn't happen very often.  I pack up a bottle of Chianti and head on over.

I also bring her some flowers.  She is in a new apartment, and she still hasn't finished furnishing and decorating it yet, so I figure after the week she has had, a little pop of color might brighten up her space.  She loves the color purple, so I bring her a purple bouquet and a thick glass vase.

After dinner I ask her to play a game with me.  You see, at my house, I have games, games, and more games.  Some of these games I've had since I was a kid, like the original Masterpiece Art Auction game.  Some of them I found online and replaced the originals, like the original Barbie Queen of the Prom.  Others I have the originals for but had to replace parts, like buying replacement stones for the original Mancala board (although the original stones, done in glittery milk-like glaze, will never truly be replaced by the modern glassy versions).  I have a touch of old and new: old Mille Bornes game, new Rat-A-Tat Cat game; old version of Chinese checkers; new Quiddler.

I am shocked to discover that my daughter has no games, not even a deck of cards, at her house.  We run up the street to a pharmacy store, but all they have to offer is Uno.  They have several versions of Uno, but it's still all Uno.  That is, until she spots the Peanuts Gang version.  Without even batting an eyelash, we are out of the store in a flash, holding the prized Peanuts Uno in our hot hands.

It takes a few rounds to get used to these cards and their weird instructions, but pretty soon my daughter is soundly kicking my ass at Peanuts Uno.  I've got to get her games stocked, though.  Maybe for her birthday we'll take a trip to Toys 'R' Us and stock up on a few classics:  Battleship, Monopoly, Yahtzee, Cards Against Humanity.  In the meantime, Charlie Brown and Linus and the gang will have to keep her company.

WINE OF THE WEEK

Back on the wine trail finally after suffering with the plague for three weeks.  I almost forget what it feels like to be healthy.  So much for my summer break - I'm just healthy enough to go back and have the germy children breathe all over me.

It's okay, though.  I'm ready.  I heard that alcohol wards off bad germs, so I'm back at the wine tastings.

Recently I've touted whites; I've touted reds.  Today I have a very strong white wine contender and a very strong red blend contender.  In the end, though, I am quite surprised to see a Rosé smacking down all the others at the table.

Gobelsburg Gruner Rosé is a 2015 Austrian beauty.  The nose is interesting, a little like honey, without the overpowering scent that a lot of the darker Rosés have.  This Rosé is fruity, citrusy, and a little earthy.  The sommelier claims it "points squarely in the Burgundy direction," and that may well be true.  However, the Gobelsburg Rosé has something that puts it right up there with my favorite, Mapreco:

Fizz.  This Rosé has a touch of fizz.  "Not enough to make you burp," the pourer says, and he is right, but enough to zoom this wine right up to the top of my recommendation list for this week.  Even better, it retails under $10 a bottle.  You can't go wrong, and with a few good weeks of summer left (damn the school calendar ... it's not mid-September yet), this is exactly the kind of wine to keep that summer frame of mind.

SPICING LIFE UP

It's time.  I have finally out-spiced my cabinet and have to order a spice rack.

It doesn't hit me when I discover four containers of cinnamon.  Nope.  And it doesn't hit me when I double up on tumeric, onion powder, ground cloves, nor allspice.  I am even disgusted having to pull the entire shelf apart just to find some nutmeg.

Nope.  It finally hits me when I try to find the paprika.  Truthfully, I cannot find a damn thing.

I get on the Internet, find a great deal on spice racks, and send in my payment.  Now, I wait.  In a way, though, I'm not sure I want the spice rack to come in.  I've no idea where in my small kitchen I'll put a spice rack, anyway.

I don't care!

I am going to get organized if it kills me."Spice" it all up, so to speak.  Then, perhaps I can cook and bake again with a little bit of flavor and flair.  In the meantime, though, I want you all to know that I really did buy pumpkin pie spice, even though I have all the spices necessary plus some doubles.  Oh, and does anyone need any cream of tartar? If you do, I can hook you up for a really, really good spice ... er, price.

POUTINE POT BELLIES

Finally my pals and I get a chance to go to Montreal's Old Port.  This is where the eclectic shops are, it's right along the waterfront, there is plenty of live entertainment, and the architecture is amazing, second only to the magnificent churches.  The day before when we'd stopped on Church Street in Burlington, VT, our patio mate Beth, the young woman with the air guard and the air show, recommended we try poutine.  This information is stored loosely inside of our craniums.

I have my eye on a couple of prizes, so I have a tiny bit of shopping to do, and then we're going to find a place to have dinner.  We do a complete perimeter walk because that's what we do, and a couple of restaurants catch our attention, but the tables on the cobblestone streets seem just like Boston redux.  We can pretty much have the same experience at home.

We are walking nonchalantly by a restaurant that is playing some techno music, certainly not our vibe.  Well, to be honest, I've liked techno since it first came out in its experimental form in the late 60's, but this stuff is straight-on clubbing music.  Two hostesses greet us on the street, trying to convince us to come in and eat.  The name of the restaurant: Montreal Poutine.

We think maybe it's too modern for us old ladies, and we thank the girls, joke about being right back, and shuffle along with our shopping items and our oversized pocketbooks.A quick circle of the block, and we have decided that yes, we will try Montreal Poutine because, damnit, we are in Montreal, and Beth said we should try the poutine.

We surprise the hostesses as we return, and we are ushered inside with menus.  Only thing is we are not inside at all.  Instead of sitting out on the sidewalk under an awning, we are nestled between several multi-story stone buildings, a little grotto in the middle of a palazzo-like setting.  We are inside-outside and outside-inside.  Trees grow near us and hang over us, and birds fly freely overhead as if we are eating in an elegant, ancient aviary.

It is, quite simply, one of the coolest places I have ever been.

One friend orders a brisket sandwich, while the other friend and I order versions on poutine (french fries, cheese curd, gravy, and meat).  I have to admit, poutine is one of those perfect meals that feels like I'm getting away with eating impolitely at the table.  We were raised to believe that dragging our food through leftover gravy or sauce was not acceptable behavior at the table, but I always liked to sop up leftover meat juices with a roll or with my potatoes.  Now, someone is serving me a giant heap of french fries covered in gravy, and I'm not even going to be yelled at for it.

A couple of drinks and full meals later, we are ready to toddle back out to the Old Port, back to the subway.  There has been a water main break, though, so the Metro is shut down.

No matter.

It's a beautiful night, there's a full moon, and we are less than two miles from our hotel.  Montreal is a safe and decently clean city.  After verifying this information and our route home (turn right then turn left and walk up the hill) with two police officers, we enjoy even more sights and sounds of this spectacular city.

Besides, we have to work off that poutine some way; might as well be while night-seeing, as well.  We don't want to come home to Boston with Montreal Poutine Pot Bellies.

BOTANICAL GARDENS TELEPORTATION

One of our many Montreal stops is the Botanical Gardens.  This place is so incredibly massive that after hours on the property, we've covered maybe half of the displays.  It's daunting how sprawling and magnificent it is.  Casual visitors could complete the grounds in a day; not so casual visitors need two days minimum to do this place justice.

Adjacent to the Olympic Park and Tower, the garden seems removed from the hubbub of the city.  It is amazingly quiet here, with places to sit, places to hide, and places to meditate.  There are water displays, bridges, stonework, ponds, and the amazing differences between some of the plant areas make it seem like we are transitioning to different worlds, all within a day's stroll.

With all of the plants and the flowers and the trees, my favorite part turns out to be something we find by taking an accidental turn.  My friend points to a small, almost obscure path, and says, "This looks interesting," so we start up the hill.  Before we realize it, we have left the beautiful, lush garden behind and entered a world of rocks and mosses and sand and cacti and, surprisingly enough, a waterfall.

It is incredible here.  No one else is wandering around here except for us.  It seems stark by a glance but is ripe with beauty upon close inspection.  The rocks form a labyrinth of trails that cross over one another, and the cliffs around us buffer us completely from any other noise.  It is silent here, so introspective; a writer's dreamland.

We do not finish the Botanical Gardens.  We simply do not have the energy left on such a hot day.  Our feet are begging us to give up, and we still have the Olympic Tower to conquer.  Another day, perhaps, another few days, even.  I'll be ready next time, though.  To those who've never been -- Be prepared.  It's the closest you'll come to being teleported without all the messy particle-ization to worry about.  More pictures below this blog: